Sherlock Holmes had a particular way of moving about a room as though he were confident it must be grateful for his presence. Even with blood flowing in a steady stream from the gash above his right eyebrow, the man managed to appear nothing short of magnanimous as he lounged on the sofa of Watson's scarcely decorated study. He gazed around the room as though he were the King himself appraising, and finding more than marginal disappointment with, his newest summer castle. Watson was sure the only reason Holmes was not pacing about the room, picking up then replacing items in locations that suited his own tastes, was the unnatural size his left knee had grown to since he had limped his way off the streets and back into Watson's personal space.
"Keep the kerchief on that," Watson snapped, pausing in his quest to gather up the necessary medical supplies to send Holmes a warning glare. "I don't want blood all over my furniture when Mary comes tomorrow."
"You're a doctor," Sherlock replied airily, waving the handkerchief through the air in direct opposition of his order, "she must become accustomed to bits and pieces of human anatomy appearing in your home. Best begin the adjustment now, Watson. It will be too late for her to discover she has no stomach for it after the marriage."
Holmes paused here, his head tilting slightly to the side as though some strange new thought had only just occurred, and Watson gritted his teeth as he retrieved the last necessary supply. Not only did the new angle cause the wound to drip directly onto the previously pristine sofa, Watson was quite aware, perhaps more so than any other human being alive, what that particular posture foretold of.
"You are still getting married, are you not?"
"Of course I'm getting married. I gave her the ring, didn't I? The ring you gave me to give her, if you would recall."
"You've set the date, in such case?"
"No, not as of yet-"
The 'ah,' that infuriating, all knowing, ah which escaped the other man's lips at the confession said more than any lengthy explanation ever could.
"I am getting married, Holmes."
"Oh certainly, certainly," but Sherlock was distracted again, his mind already moved along to a new subject of interest. "Moving again, are you? I told you this quarter of London wouldn't agree with you."
The sudden change to an apparently random subject entirely derailed the anger which had been gaining steady momentum ever since Holmes had knocked on his door in such a sorry state. Watson physically paused for a moment from the sudden change in thought process.
"I have no intentions of moving. What are you on about, Holmes?"
Watson arrived at Holmes side with no small amount of confused irritation. He placed the medical supplies on the sofa next to the man before he grabbed the hand responsible for the still waving handkerchief, forcibly pressing both the cloth and the hand holding it against the cut.
"Do you not? Hmm." Only Sherlock Holmes could make a monosyllabic noise sound like he had simultaneous stumbled upon and solved the worlds greatest mystery somewhere in Watson's study.
"It is only that from the state, or rather, current non-state of your possessions it is apparent you have yet to finish setting up house, despite having resided here for several weeks. Naturally, I concluded you must be intending to relocate once more. Leaving a task which you have resolved to finish undone is hardly like you, Watson."
Though the man's brow was covered by handkerchief and hands, Watson would bet a year's wages that Holmes had raised an eyebrow at him during his observations. He pulled away, turning to retrieve the surgical needle and thread rather than indulge Holmes in whatever argument the man was attempting to provoke from him. Holmes, as expected, merrily carried on the conversation as though Watson had replied.
"Do not attempt to deny it, Watson. You are scarcely a quarter of the way settled, by my accounts. While, granted, I have made no exact inventory, the nature and quantity of items which you brought along on this little expedition did not escape my notice. You even stole some of our clothing."
"I paid for them, Holmes. Every article belongs to me."
"There was a clearly agreed upon bartering system."
There was no arguing with him once that smugly superior smirk had settled across his face, and Watson didn't waste the energy in attempting. Instead, he pulled Sherlock's hand and kerchief away from the still steadily weeping wound, frowning as he discovered he could see a thin line of the underlying skull in the heart of the wound. Holmes, for his part, settled into the familiar role of Watson's patient as easily as if they were in their apartment on Baker Street, tilting his head back against the sofa and fairly melting into the item as Watson set about his work.
"Do make yourself comfortable," Watson muttered, torn between annoyance and amusement at the display. This was precisely the reason he had insisted they take in a good, solid dog rather than the cat the landlady had suggested: Sherlock provided all the self-indulgent feline behavior a single set of rented rooms could withstand. At moments such as this, with his eyes closed and body lax, Watson was positive Holmes would purr were he capable of the task. Watson resisted the urge to shake his head at the sight, setting about the work of stitching the man's brow back together instead.
"If you are finally to assume the role of proper host," Holmes murmured idly, not otherwise moving a muscle despite the insertion of the needle, "a touch of laudanum would be most appreciated, doctor."
"Behave yourself and I'll see what I can manage."
"Yes, mother," Sherlock replied, a small, amused smile forming on his lips.
They continued on in comfortable silence for the first two stitches, Watson directly in front of Holmes, bowed over his friend. One of the doctor's hands performed the tasks of holding Sherlock's head still and keeping blood soaked hair back from obscuring the wound, as the other worked the needle in and out of the torn flesh. Watson had just begun to fully delude himself into believing Holmes may, in fact, behave himself for the duration of his medical treatment, when he heard the rustle of shifting clothing that signified Holmes had an arm.
"Holmes," Watson started, ready to chastise the man for fidgeting while undergoing medical treatment. He was cut short and forced to suck in a breath as that hand made its way to the bottom edge of his waistcoat instead, clever fingers tracing upwards to play with the lower most button. "Holmes."
"Yes, Watson? Something the matter, old boy?"
The bottom button had been undone in the time it took him to speak the words. Holmes cracked his eyes open now, gazing up at Watson smugly.
"You cannot do that here, Holmes," he warned. His eyes narrowed, but he continued about his task. Watson wouldn't pause treatment partway through simply to give Sherlock a show of how much he had managed to, yet again, get under the doctor's skin.
The second button came undone.
"I do believe you are confused, Watson. I can very easily do 'that' wherever I please. As evidence, I present the very fact that the 'that' you refer to is currently underway. I am, ergo, I can," Holmes seemed rather pleased with his little argument, celebrating by undoing the final two buttons in quick succession.
"You cannot," Watson, in a move which he was sure tested the boundaries of the Hippocratic oath, pressed the needle in hard to accentuate his statement, drawing a startled gasp of pain from the man beneath his hands. Watson grit his teeth as the sound produced a most undesirable effect, a small shudder running down his spine that no man save Sherlock Holmes would have noticed.
"Watson-"
"No," Watson cut him off, glaring furiously at the wound before him even as he resumed his work with a gentler hand. "This is my home, Sherlock. The home I intend to reside in with my future wife. I do not wish for a single room to be occupied by even a recollection of you."
Watson could not tolerate such an idea. As it were he awoke at three in the morning, ears straining to hear the chords of a violin. Such instincts were merely echoes of a time gone by, however. The mournful song of Sherlock's violin had never poured down this hallway, just as the lingering stench of some chemical put to an unusual experimentation had never been beaten from these carpets. Such passing fancies were a simple matter to be tucked back into the recess of his mind, not to be paid heed to until the process repeated itself the following night.
Ghosts were another matter entirely. To look into the study and know something such as that had transpired there would be unbearable. To know, both through memory and the small, linger details which the infuriating man before him had so thoroughly trained Watson to observe, that Sherlock Holmes had walked these halls, had laid upon the sofa, had reached for him, had-
Watson could build his family amongst ever more faded echoes. He would not be able to tolerate a life of being surrounded by both wife and the lingering ghosts of Holmes in such close quarters. There was only room enough for one other within this residence, and by god the ring on his fiancés' finger should be message enough to Holmes as to which he had chosen as that companion.
The fingers on his now open waistcoat stilled, and Watson could both see and feel the fully opened eyes of Sherlock Holmes searching his face for some unnamable clue.
"Is that why you came here, Holmes?" Watson continued harshly, any tenderness or finesse gone from his hands, the man beneath him now lightly flinching with each insertion and tug of the needle. "There are any number of doctors available near Baker Street, as you are well aware. Did you come all this way in such a condition simply for my more personal care?"
The accusation was bitter in a way Watson was not fully willing to analyze, though the narrowing eyes of Holmes assured him the detective was already well into solving the case. Had Holmes expected him to feel flattered? Honored that he would drag his badly beaten form out of the boxing ring to Watson's door to have his wounds tended and legs spread? As though Watson hadn't left, as though they were still partners thwarting criminals then pressing against each other in the same bed, one or the other later slinking out to return to his chambers before the landlady came around with the morning tea.
"The house is quite empty without you, old chap," Holmes replied quietly, his gaze fixed on some point beyond Watson's shoulder. "You did, after all, even take our dog with you."
Watson's hands slowed, the last stitch sliding in slowly, gently, and he took a silent moment to secure the end of the thread before cutting the needle loose. He used the general hassle of sterilizing and replacing the needle to its case, of retrieving the disinfectant from his supplies, to fill the suddenly awkward quiet between them. Still, Sherlock's hands remained resting limply against his open waistcoat, one thumb brushing the buttons of his dress shirt as he leaned to the side. Watson refrained from comment.
He dripped the disinfectant onto the closed wound, spreading it evenly over the lengthy gash with his thumb, and Watson had to bite back a resigned sigh as Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. Somehow, despite the action directly contradicting the spirit of what Watson had expressed only moments before, coming from Holmes the gesture almost felt like an apology. Holmes had always been so infuriatingly contrary like that, and Watson had to acknowledge the trait played no small part in how the man had been able to talk him into their former 'arrangement.'
Former, of course, being the operative word of the sentence. Watson returned the bottle to his medical bag and dropped down to his knees to inspect the swollen leg. Sherlock's hands fell from his waistcoat as it moved out of reach. The hands dropped to lie rather awkwardly on the man's chest, as if, now that they were no long in contact with Watson, Holmes were not entirely sure what the appendages were for.
"I trust the other chap left in a far worse state," he started again after a moment, rolling up the leg of Sherlock's trousers to examine the damage. Watson felt the tense muscle relax under his evaluating hand as the apology was formally accepted, a soft breath that was very nearly a sigh escaping his patient before the man replied.
"I have your share of the winnings," Holmes commented, causing Watson to glance up with a raised brow as he evaded the question. The man made a vague gesture towards his overcoat, folded neatly over a near by chair. "The usual bet. I imagine you'll be wanting to hold onto the notes yourself from this point forward. Give them to the fiancé, perhaps. Or will that not be her duty until the elusive day she becomes your wife?"
Holmes had entered into a proper bit of bitter melancholy, it seemed. Hardly a state Watson was unaccustomed to dealing with, but one that made him frown at the man before returning to his inspection nonetheless.
"Even should we set it at tea tomorrow, we both know there's no pleasing you with the date, Holmes. It will be either too soon and I am rushing into matrimony to prevent my terrible doubts from overwhelming me, or it will be too far and I am putting off the date to avoid the dreaded event. Now, for the love of the Queen, do keep your misery to yourself rather than directing it at me."
"And why ever should it not be directed at the source?"
"You are the source, Holmes. I am engaged. I moved to my own place of residence and I bloody well took my clothing as well as my dog with me when I did. I am getting married, Sherlock, and by god that fact isn't news to you. None of this is a recent revelation, so stop behaving as a jilted mistress and carry on with your life."
Watson tugged the trouser leg back down with an unnecessary sharpness. The knee, as was typical with the man's boxing injuries, required little more than a weeks rest and perhaps a strong measure of brandy to heal right enough on its own.
"Your analogy is flawed, Watson," Holmes replied after a moment, pulling himself up to a proper sitting position, wincing slightly from, most likely, at least one cracked rib as he moved. "I was in possession of you first. Which would, therefore, make our dear Ms. Mary the mistress of this scenario. And I will take my laudanum now, doctor."
"You aren't in need of laudanum, Holmes. You aren't in need of anything but a good rest in your own bed and to leave your stitches be until the cut has healed. None of your experimental healing techniques. I'll be a polite host and fix you a nightcap, if you please, but I am fetching a coach directly after."
"Doubtful."
"What is?" Watson strode across the study to the liquor cabinet without waiting for a confirmation from Holmes. He had yet to offer Holmes a drink and have it refused. He unplugged the decanter, pouring a measure of scotch for each of them, as Holmes finally began his reply.
"That you shall call a couch; seeing as you have yet," Holmes stated in a soft, detached manner, "to re-button your waistcoat, my dear Watson."
Watson's hands paused in their task of returning the stopper to the decanter and, despite his better judgment, glanced down to confirm that Holmes was, indeed, correct. The waistcoat hung open in a near silent accusation.
"Don't," Holmes continued, stopping Watson's hands short as they moved to rectify the situation. "The damage has been done, old chap. Adjusting it now will only enforce my conclusion."
"With that conclusion being?"
Holmes remained silent, leaving Watson no choice but to carry on at playing host and turn with a glass in both hand to make his way back across the room. Sherlock turned his head slightly at Watson's approach, watching the doctor out of the corner of his eye. There was a nearly unbearably still moment in which Watson, his waistcoat still parted down the center, held out the glass in offering and Sherlock made no move to either retrieve it or answer his, admittedly foolish, inquiry.
"Your conclusion, Holmes."
That seemed to bring the man back from wherever it was his wandering mind had gone, and Holmes accepted the glass with a small noise of acknowledgement and, Watson enjoyed deluding himself into believing, thanks. They both took a drink from their glass, with Holmes utterly draining his in one long swallow, before the detective replied.
"That our 'activities,' as you so concisely labeled them, are not, despite your protests, an occurrence that you are prepared to resign to the past tense."
Holmes offered him back his empty glass and Watson took it wordlessly, placing it aside before handing Holmes his own. The remainder of Watson's scotch was quickly drained by Holmes, who then waved off Watson's hand as he moved to retrieve the glass once more. Instead, Sherlock held the empty glass to the light and gazed through it distractedly, no doubt calculating angles of reflection, the nature of the hippopotami, or whatever strange, brilliant thoughts passed through the mind of Sherlock Holmes in moments such as these.
"I was correct, I trust," Holmes commented after a minute of reflection, "in that you will not be calling a coach."
A long moment of silence passed in which neither man seemed quite able to move. Holmes still gazed at his glass, though Watson could tell he no longer saw it, the man too trapped in the terrible interval between request and response to make note of the world around him. Vulnerable. For a rare, crystallized moment, it were as though Watson could look through Holmes as easily as if he were made of glass, as easily as Holmes himself must gaze through others. And in that moment he recalled the rest of the reasons why Holmes had been able to first guide him to bed, all those many months ago.
"I don't believe so, no," Watson replied, his breath catching in his throat for an instant as Holmes turned sharply to regard him. "But only this once, Sherlock. Only this one, last time."
"I never expected otherwise, John."
And whatever force holding him still vanished at those words, at that sound of his Christian name passing through the lips of Sherlock Holmes. Watson stepped forward as Holmes arched up, pressing into Watson to the best of his injured ability. Watson didn't stoop, not yet, and his height kept the seated Holmes from reaching his face, even as Watson threaded his fingers through Sherlock's hair, one hand tracing the edge of the freshly done stitching. Holmes, for his part, didn't seem to mind the position, clever fingers and teeth no less than assaulting Watson's shirt, undoing each button with a rapid precision, his mouth following behind the parting fabric without hesitation. Watson let his head fall back, stroking Sherlock's hair and allowing him to undo the last of his shirt buttons.
"Watson," Holmes stated between small bites across the man's stomach, fingers playing along the buckle of his belt. "You are being most uncooperative, standing there in such an indifferent manner."
"My dear Holmes," he murmured in reply, his hand moving away from the stitches to trace along Sherlock's sharp cheek bone, then to cup his chin, tilting his head back despite the complaining whine issued by the eccentric man. Watson looked down, meeting the heated gaze with one of his own as he stroked the cupped cheek with his thumb. "Need I attend to every little matter for you? Could it be the great mind of our time is incapable of removing a simple set of trousers?"
Holmes parted his lips to protest, but Watson shifted his grip before the words could form. He slipped the thumb into the wet mouth and gently stroked the welcoming tongue, efficiently silencing the man. Sherlock issued that odd, pleased hum of a noise that Watson had only ever heard from him, and took the digit in fully, alternating suction and friction from his twisting tongue as his eyes slid closed. Watson set about undoing his belt single handedly, managing the buckle, and then releasing a small chuckle as Holmes batted his hand away before he could do more. Still with his eyes closed, with a good deal of his attention focused on devising new and fantastic ways to torture Watson through the use of his mouth and a thumb alone, Holmes felt his way along Watson's trousers before undoing the buttons with shockingly steady hands.
"You've proven your point," Watson exhaled, biting back a soft moan as Holmes achieved his goal and withdrew the doctor's cock from his opened trousers. Holmes held his hand steady, pulling back and allowing Watson's thumb to fall from his mouth with mischievous smirk that made Watson's partly hardened member stiffen slightly more in the other man's grasp.
"Did I have a point, doctor? I was quite unaware. How very kind of you to enlighten me of such," Holmes replied with bright amusement. He raised his uninjured eyebrow in a small challenge before he leaned forward, guiding Watson into his mouth without another word.
Watson released a slow breath, his hand at the back of Sherlock's neck tightening, gripping the man firmly as he began to shallowly trust. He was ever allowing Holmes to instigate, to start them off on these mad schemes of his, but Watson could never simply allow his friend to take control.
"You do realize," Watson began again after a moment of adjustment, "that this is the only time in our acquaintance when you are blissfully silent."
Holmes widened his mouth, attempting to pull back for some retort or another, but was thwarted by his partner as Watson held Holmes still by the back of the neck, pressing forward to bury his rapidly hardened cock fully in the nearly-offending mouth. Holmes laughed around his erection, the vibration of the sound causing Watson to jerk roughly forward with a low moan.
"But still not without whit," he added with rueful amusement.
He brushed back hair, parts still stiff with dried blood, from the man's face with a nearly remorseful affection. He had meant what he had said, even if Holmes had yet to realize it. Holmes was convinced he could argue or goad or trick Watson into anything, as he had with perusing Lord Blackwood, or as exquisitely exampled by this very evening. The detective's brilliant mind, for whatever reason, had failed to take two very obvious facts into account, however. Both Watson's relocation and engagement had been expressly against the will and preference of Holmes. Both the man had repeatedly attempted, and all too obviously failed, to prevent. And now, after tonight, Watson resolved that this aspect of their friendship would become the third matter in which he had successfully overcome the express wish of his closest companion.
Watson pulled Holmes back with a firm tug, his now fully erect cock sliding wetly from the mouth. Watson released a small hiss as the chilled air caressed his moistened flesh, and had to physically restrain the smugly smirking Holmes from taking it back into his mouth.
"You will cause me to come undone before I've removed so much as your cuff link," he groaned breathlessly, some light amusement underlying his tone. "Hardly the encounter I had in mind."
"Do not chastise me," Holmes retorted, a mischievous tilt to his smile as he leaned back to once more recline against the sofa, "for your own inaction, doctor. I offer no resistance to the removal of whatever you please."
There was a fundamental difference between Watson and Holmes; a distinct variation in outlook and action that, despite all reason, ever seemed to only draw them closer rather than apart. Holmes picked the lock, Watson kicked down the door. Thus is came as little surprise that while Holmes had carefully and precisely undone each and every one of Watson's buttons, Watson merely leaned down and torn the fabric open, the clattering impact of waistcoat and shirt buttons landing echoing through the room. Holmes laughed helplessly as Watson pealed the ripped cloth off his shoulders then left the fabric along with upper arms, trapping Sherlock's arms slightly behind his body as Watson pressed down upon him.
"I hope you've found a maid, Watson. It will be buggery to find all of that. Though, of course," Holmes paused to gasp as Watson swept the medical bag off the sofa and crawled up on the sofa properly. "That would imply a certain attachment to the property which you have yet to demonstrate."
"I favored your silent whit, Sherlock," Watson commented before he silenced the man once more, capturing his mouth with his own. The kisses were hard, demanding, with Watson giving no quarter to the moaning Holmes as he probed fiercely with his tongue, determined to dedicate to memory the taste and feel of each and every crevice within that talented mouth.
Watson used his grip on Sherlock's hair and the pressure of his mouth to turn the man to the side, lowering him to lie fully across the sofa with Watson's knees on either side of Sherlock's waist. Sherlock wasted no time in taking advantage of the new position, using the back of the sofa as a brace to press against, slowly working his shoulders and arms free from their hand tailored prison as Watson's hands ghosted along his chest and stomach.
The small gasps Holmes breathed into his mouth as his hands pressed along Sherlock's chest informed the doctor that the man had no less than four cracked ribs from his earlier sport. As Watson made special note to avoid again placing pressure on the areas, the thought lurking in the shadows of his mind since he had first resolved to wed Mary made its presence known: Who would tend to him now? Watson pondered this as Holmes attempted to arch against him only to be thwarted by his sore leg giving out under the pressure, falling back against the sofa with a half pained groan. Who would see to this brilliant, clever, inexcusably stubborn man now? Their last indiscretion. Whom would a bloodied and sewn together Sherlock whimper for after tonight?
"You are bordering on inattentive, doctor."
Holmes, at last freed from his upper garments, had placed his palms on either side of Watson's face and pushed the man back to gasp in a breath of air. Still tasting the remains of Sherlock's scotch on his tongue, Watson stared down at him for a moment, his own chest heaving at the sudden return of oxygen. The sight of him alone was enough to push all melancholy ponderings from Watson's mind. Sherlock looked scarcely short of ravished, his lips parted and slightly swollen, face flushed, and hair mussed beyond all common decency. Those lips curved in a small smirk, widening to offer some clever remark, but were cut short as Watson moved his hands to grip Sherlock's hips and pressed his hardened cock against the answering bulge still trapped within the buttoned trousers. Sherlock arched sharply, a strangled, pleading sound escaping his throat rather than any cutting commentary, and Watson could not help a small groan as the man's eyes fluttered at the continued, grinding pressure.
"John," Holmes managed, his breath coming in small, hitching gasps timed to the rhythm of Watson's continued thrusts, his entire body twisting with each intake of air. "Have mercy on me."
Watson responded not with words, but with hands, teeth, and tongue. He abandoned his bruising grip on Sherlock's hips to support himself with his arms, keeping the weight of his body from pressing upon cracked ribs and bruised torso as he made a wet path down the length of Sherlock's bared chest. The proof of the man's industry as a boxer was evident beneath Watson's fingers and mouth, and he wasted no opportunity to leave his own marks upon the muscled body, evidence of teeth, nail, and suction obvious in the wake of his journey. Holmes was often a creature of passions and indulgences, given to succumbing to basic urge and instinct despite his uncommonly superior intellect, and the normally eloquent man was swiftly reduced to primal noises of encouragement and appreciation, urging Watson ever onward.
Who would tend to him? Watson growled away the persistent thought as he reached his destination. The hitch in Sherlock's breath as Watson hastily undid his belt then nearly tore the seams of one of the loops as he harshly pulled it free, provided another momentary distraction, and Watson honed his senses in on the heated, writhing body beneath him with a single-minded dedication. The trouser buttons were spared from the same savage fate as their now scattered cousins by Watson's need to focus his entire intellect on some task rather than allow it to once more wander down the unknown paths of what may be, sure that Holmes would not spare him an interrogation were he to lapse into inattentiveness once more. Even when only moments before he had been gasping and whining for Watson to carry on, Holmes could not be diverted from some new mystery once it was presented to him. Too many nights in their acquaintance had ended in frustration for the doctor as some caress or heated promise caused a spark of inspiration for a case or experiment, causing the detective to leap into action regardless of his state of dress or arousal.
The buttons tended to, Watson slipped off the sofa to momentarily kneel beside it. He ignored Sherlock's half-moaned protest at the sudden absences of teeth and tongue as he set about the delicate job of maneuvering the trousers along and off Sherlock's bruised form without inflicting needless pain. Holmes, predictably, would have none of Watson's mother henning, and proceeded to kick and twist free of the garment despite his injuries. Holmes did not waste an instant; wrapping an eager hand around his own erection with a shuddering groan the instant Watson completed the task of tossing the discarded trousers aside. Watson paused only a moment, devouring the sight of the heavy-lidded Holmes, the man's impossibly dilated pupils staring directly into Watson's, his hand absorbed in the task of stroking his cock, his legs parting in a wordless invitation. The lamp light cast long shadows along Sherlock's form, highlight muscle and the arch of bone beneath his bitten and bruised skin, and it was a long moment before Watson could properly perform the suddenly monumental undertaking of breathing. Sherlock's sharp utterance of his name recalled him to the world and Watson immediately turned to cast about the ground for his fallen medical supplies, a large portion of his attention diverted to the still active Holmes beside him.
The vial of diluted cedar tree oil had, blessedly, not wandered far, and Watson was swift to take to his position between Sherlock's parted legs once he had the glass firmly in hand. The doctor took a moment to insure the injured leg was still well supported by the sofa, earning a highly irritated, impatient moan from Holmes, before he swatted the man's hand away from its activates and set about his enterprise. Holmes was groaning and insistent and Watson was all too willing to oblige, popping the cork of the vial and applying a liberal dose to his palm in one swift gesture, then allowing the cork to fall where it would on the sofa as he placed the vial on the floor. Watson released a choked off gasp as the liquid, so very cold even at room temperature in comparison to his heated arousal, made contact with flesh and then he stroked in much the same manner Holmes had moments before, firm and long, coating himself in the slick oil. He tilted his head up to meet Sherlock's eyes, his cock twitching in his hand at the intense, burning gaze his companion observed him with; as though Watson were the final piece to some grand, elusive puzzle the detective had dedicated his existence to solving.
Despite his care and attention to Sherlock's leg and ribs throughout this final encounter, Watson pressed forward without further preparation or warning, driving into the moaning body with a relentless determination. Holmes hardly complained, bucking and twisting, impaling himself further and faster onto Watson's invading arousal with only gasping cries of passion passing through his lips. Once fully sheathed, Watson's hand struck out immediately, pinning the thigh of the swollen leg as Holmes attempted to raise it to join its counterpart in wrapping around Watson's waist. Sherlock's momentary chuckle registered his typical complaint of Watson's mothering without use of the words that currently escaped him, but Watson offered no returning playful gesture. He withdrew and thrust forward in rapid succession the instant he gained proper leverage in his new position, unable to stop the escaping moan as Holmes arched up in response, no doubt straining his ribs, and threw his head back with an open mouthed cry.
Watson offered no quarter, the necessity of keeping the injured leg in place preventing him from performing any task save thrusting into Holmes with a fierce, arrhythmic insistency. Holmes cried out all the more at the unpredictable motions, Watson sure the detectives mind must be heeding the sensations ever more intensely as it searched for some pattern in the chaotic, primal thrusts. After several minutes, Sherlock's hand crept forward once more, wrapping around his length with a soul deep moan, jerking desperately in a steady rhythm that only served to underscore Watson's unpredictable motions.
Holmes was nearly deafening in the small study, exponentially louder than he had ever been in the closely observed space of Baker Street, and each moan and cry only served to spur Watson on all the harder. The possibilities a private place of residence, free of landlady and housekeeper, of any other living creature to fear discovery from, had passed through his mind, but never fully resonated with Watson until now, until Sherlock Holmes laid pinned to his sofa, screaming out under him where only the mice would hear them. The dizzying thoughts of freedom and indulgence, as close to his grasp as they were impossible by the simple facts of his future situation, echoed relentlessly through Watson's mind as he came undone with his own piercing cry.
Watson supported himself on stiff, aching arms as he caught his breath, even now refusing to lean on Holmes' battered torso. The pulsing movement against his shirt covered stomach could not be ignored, however, and his gaze focused on the sight of Sherlock's hand still steadily moving over his cock, the sweat drenched chest rising and falling with a matching rhythm. Sherlock tending to himself, with Watson still inside him and not yet in another life entirely, was simply not to be tolerated. Watson withdrew with a scarcely audible gasp and folded nearly in two at the waist. He pulled away Sherlock's hand with one firm yank on his wrist, and took the whole of the member into his mouth with a hasty swallow. The reaction was as immediate as it was powerful, Sherlock's moan vibrating through Watson, the detective's hands darting to tangle themselves painfully in Watson's hair. Holmes raised his hips and pressed with his hands in a steady pattern, insuring no lingering chaos would enter into this equation, which Watson relented to with a small amusement.
Holmes did not last long under the onslaught of lips and tongue, nearly curling fully around Watson's head as he came, moaning and whining as his ribs rebelled against the motion. He collapsed in a boneless pile against the sofa once the tension had passed, his hands slipping free from Watson's hair and allowed the doctor to sit up with a quick twist, popping his back after the prolonged position. Watson wiped his lips with the sleeve of his shirt before climbing off the sofa entirely, leaving the vacated space to be occupied by Sherlock's sprawling legs.
The tucking in of flesh and fabric, along with redoing the buttons his various garments, took only a matter of seconds. By the time Holmes had opened his eyes once more, it would have required the detective's skills of deduction to determine what Watson had partaken in only moments before. Watson, in stark contrast to Holmes' shameless observation of the doctor, could hardly glance in the direction of the sofa, let alone take in the sight of the stripped and panting Sherlock. Holmes reclined on the sofa like Dionysus upon his throne, thoroughly debauched and sated, the darkening bruises and angry, red imprints of teeth liberally spread across his neck and chest appearing as silent accusations to Watson.
"Well done, doctor," Holmes laughed softly after he had shifted to better observe the damage to his torso. "I am quite on to your plot now. I shall be barred from stepping into the ring for a week at the least. You are to be commended. It is rare to observe such dedication to ones patients."
It was a familiar banter. Watson's fits of remorse after indulging Holmes yet again, despite all his better instincts, were hardly a novel phenomena. Unlike Sherlock, Watson possessed a healthy respect for both the law and the Church of England, and Holmes had long ago determined the necessity of distracting the doctor from falling into post-coital reflection. These typical ponderous were far from Watson's mind tonight, however. There was no place in his swiftly moving mind for such common place concerns tonight.
Watson stood before his desk, his back presented to Holmes, hands stuck firmly in his trouser pockets, and shoulders kept rigidly straight. He would never be able to stand with Mary in this room, he knew. He would never work at this desk as she sewed upon the sofa in the peaceful, harmonious silence of matrimony. By his own hand, he had undone any future happiness which may have occurred within the four walls of the study, had banished his wife from a room within her own property, and had managed such before the vows had even been exchanged. All for the sake of one Sherlock Holmes.
Worst of all, was the revelation that, in the face of bare and marked Holmes, he came so very close to simply no longer caring about such facts.
Watson put aside such thoughts with a near physical effort, turning to make his way to the study door without a glance at Holmes. The last time. It was done now and, Watson was certain, in the light of day, with Holmes safely returned to Baker Street and Mary sitting in his parlor, he would be glad for it. No matter what last moment discoveries may have occurred, no matter what lingering concerns he carried on the behalf of his friend. Sherlock was a grown man, a brilliant one at that. Surely he could tend to himself. Surely.
"I shall summon a coach," he murmured, kicking aside a stray button as he wrapped his fingers around the door handle. "The wardrobe is at the top of the stairs, second room to the left. I am sure you recall which articles suit you."
"Watson," Holmes interjected, causing Watson to pause partway through the doorway. He did not look back, did not meet the eyes he could feel burning into his neck, only starred unseeingly into the entryway as Holmes pressed on. "I am not a jealous man. If Ms. Mary wishes to possess the rest of the residence, I am quite content to be confined to the study."
Watson remained frozen in the doorway for a long moment, gripping the handle with painfully white knuckles.
"Put your trousers on, Holmes," he answered at length, then finished his passage into the hall, pulling the study door shut behind him.
Oh, there are eyes that he can see,
And hands to make his hands rejoice,
But to my lover I must be
Only a voice.
Oh, there are breasts to bear his head,
And lips whereon his lips can lie,
But I must be till I am dead
Only a cry
A Cry by Sarah Teasdale